


Stay Still

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [13]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intimate and close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Still

Saturday, December 25, 1999

Numbers glances up from his fifth game of solitaire and frowns.

There’s no reason why what he’s seeing should bother him, let alone _anger_ him, but he swears he can feel his left eye twitching as Wrench, lounging on the sofa and reading one of the ridiculous magazines he bought for himself, absentmindedly swipes his curly bangs from his line of sight for at least the hundredth time today. If Wrench’s hair was one giant step beyond “overgrown” when they met last week, then it’s definitely falling into the territory of “way too fucking long” now and Numbers, frankly, refuses to stand for it. He makes a beeline for his suitcase and tears it open.

Wrench, noticing Numbers’ movements, grudgingly pries his attention away from an article about the world’s fattest dog. Something certainly must have put a bee in the guy’s bonnet because he’s ripping through his giant suitcase, flinging shirts and boxers and spare boxes of bullets into a pile on the floor while he shakes his head, frustration shaking free a couple of his usually-slicked-back locks. Figuring that it isn’t worth getting involved in Numbers’ quest, Wrench merely quirks an eyebrow at the scene playing out in front of him before returning his focus to the magazine, his eyes rolling spectacularly on their way back to the page.

But Wrench doesn’t get to enjoy the article for much longer. Numbers finds his holy grail: a white bag that he promptly sets on the table with enough force to send a few of his cards sliding away from the impact’s epicenter. _“I’m cutting your hair,”_ he signals to Wrench, who’s curiously watching Numbers again from the corner of his eye.

A disbelieving laugh nearly runs away from Wrench, almost escaping his lips until he clamps them shut around the emerging sound. _“Like hell you are.”_

 _“I mean it,”_ Numbers says, dead serious. _“You look ridiculous with your hair like that. Like L-E-I-F G-A-R-R-E-T-T.”_

If Wrench knew who that was he might be offended. _“When I go back to Fargo I’ll take care of it,”_ he says, hoping that will end the discussion.

 _“No. Now. Before we hit the next guy. You can read your stupid magazine later,”_ Numbers argues before reaching out to pluck the rag from his partner’s hand.

It might be a stupid magazine to be reading, but it’s _his_ stupid magazine to read, and he’s not about to let Numbers ruin his guilty pleasure. He bats Numbers’ hand away, his partner’s attempt reminding him of his childhood tormentors who took cruel pleasure in stealing Wrench’s sci-fi novels. Things changed when puberty washed over Wrench like a tidal wave and he grew to tower head and shoulders over them all, David now transformed into Goliath. _“It can wait a few more days. Let it go.”_

Numbers isn’t about to drop it, not while Wrench, attempting and failing to prove his point, smoothes back his bangs only for them to flop over again onto his forehead. Pursing his lips, Numbers unzips the bag with one hand, signing with the other, _“It’s a free haircut. A Christmas present, ok? Let me do this.”_

 _“Alright,”_ Wrench concedes with a heavy sigh, the offer of a free anything appealing to his inner impoverished self, the man he was before Fargo. _“Not too short.”_

After dragging over the stool from the corner of the room, Wrench watches as Numbers pulls the professional-looking clippers and various adjustment heads from the bag, his eyes going wide. _“Were you a barber?”_

After connecting the clippers to an outlet, Numbers’ index and middle fingers pinch shut against his thumb. _“No,”_ he admits, assuming this will prompt more objections from Wrench, but they don’t come. _“My mother was a hairdresser. Had her own parlor. She taught me and my sister how to do this,”_ his hands babble. Part of him wants to stop talking, stop sharing and leave it at that, but he hasn’t talked about his family in ages and it’s like his hands have taken a life of their own, like they’ll tell this story and there’s nothing Numbers can do to stop them. _“Mom wanted us to take over her business one day, when we were older. Thought it would straighten me out and bring the family together.”_ To get his hands to shut the hell up, he picks up the electric razor again, flipping it on.

Wrench doesn’t say anything at that, only nods. He understands; his own mother had hopes for him that she cast wide over him like a net, yet instead of catching a proper future for her son she only wound up smothering him with her misguided expectations.

 _“Not too short,”_ Wrench reiterates.

Numbers nods, draping a vinyl cape around Wrench’s shoulders. _“Don’t move. Still. Stay still.”_

Wrench closes his eyes as the first flurry of bronze curls descend to the floor, as slowly and gently as the falling snow outside. He feels Numbers’ touch, gentler than he thought the man was capable of, his hands almost reverent as they work. Despite the strangeness of this, the intimacy of Numbers being so close, his fingers delicate as they trace through his rapidly-diminishing hair to comb away the loose strands, Wrench doesn’t shift away, doesn’t flinch as Numbers leans in closer still to carefully direct the clippers around Wrench’s left ear. The faintest hint of Numbers’ cologne reaches him, lingers momentarily before being swallowed by the mustiness of the cabin, and Wrench wonders why he never noticed it before.

Numbers sets down the clippers soon enough, and the small piles surrounding Wrench on the floor serve as the only evidence that his hair had ever been so shaggy. Numbers stands in front of Wrench, stooping down to the seated man’s height, checking for evenness and occasionally reaching out to brush away any stray strands he finds. Wrench looks right at him, unblinking, watching Numbers’ expressive brows pinch and pull as the man attached to them swipes the last of the loose tresses, sending it to the floor with the others.

 _“Finished.”_ Numbers announces, satisfied with his work. He clears his throat and stands to his full height. _“Now people might say you’re handsome.”_

Wrench shakes off the cape and runs his hands through his hair, frowning. _“Feels short.”_

 _“It’ll grow,”_ Numbers retorts, packing away his supplies. _“And I’ll cut it again. Once a month.”_ He claps Wrench on the shoulder, grinning.

Wrench realizes that the promise of a free, monthly haircut doesn’t appeal to him as much as the unspoken promise of Numbers’ fingers winding through his hair again, and his stomach does a hard, brutal flip.


End file.
